


Scenes of a Desert Otherworld: A Dream

by MasteroftheCrypticArts



Series: MotCA's Crossovers [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Experimental, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 15:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17226830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasteroftheCrypticArts/pseuds/MasteroftheCrypticArts
Summary: Doctor Strange has weird dreams of other worlds.





	Scenes of a Desert Otherworld: A Dream

  
**Sᴄᴇɴᴇ : **The bustling district of a city stranded in the desert. Civilians are ambling to and fro between tall buildings which max at eight stories at the most and do little to protect them from the sibilating heat of the midday sun. Agents in black, air-conditioned vans monitor the crowds, but no one is particularly bothered by their conspicuous antics: poking _massive_ telephoto lenses and microphones out of cracked windows, while others stand in close proximity to street vendors and pretend to not be eavesdropping but are blatantly eavesdropping. The day is relatively peaceful, barring an incident when the unscrupulous agents, seemingly unprovoked, shout "YOU!" and tackle a nondescript man to the ground before dragging his limp body to one of the vans and carrying him away. Scale along Main Street and pan out to a bird's eye view of the district. Citizens of all kinds make downtown flourish, from the corporeal to the incorporeal. Only here can you witness, for instance, the dissolution of a shish kabob as it enters, whole, into the orifice of a sentient mass of delightfully translucent gelatin.  


 

☼

 

  
**Sᴄᴇɴᴇ : **Inside of a house that does not exist. You are surrounded by bare, empty, sagging at a front door made of old oak. The house contains nothing except for three objects: a table, a chair, and a picture on the wall. It's a painting of a lighthouse atop a mountain. Light shines through the glass of its lantern room: red, like a flare. Despite the urgency its color signals, it pulses steadily, like the wax and wane of an underlying anxiety. Or a slow-blinking eye.  
  
Your head is bowed against the door. You are crying. You have realized too late that you made a horrendous mistake, and are now trapped an entire dimension away from your home.  
  
Where is your Sling Ring, Stephen?

Your scarred, heavy hand reaches for the doorknob to try one final time. The latch clicks, and you slump aside to give the door room to swing open. You open the door not to see an urban, people-fed neighborhood bustling with automotive traffic, but a vast, empty playa of crusted, baked, and cracked earth.

And the foot of a mountain with a lighthouse atop it.  


 

☼

  


 

 

☆

  
**Sᴄᴇɴᴇ : **A bonfire.

You tumble from a flood of flames into an arroyo that has not seen water in many years. It’s after dark. You hit the hard ground, crumple, and are alarmed that your skin is charred black. Your fingers are alit with flickering tongues. You are surrounded by figures dressed in hooded cloaks. Despite the fire casting bright light, their faces remain obscured by shadows. You assume that they are people. Rhythmic chanting and drawling of varied layering fills your ears, a sound sweet upon your senses. One vocalist ribbons her voice, prickling your scalp in a pleasant way in eases you. Your pulse is the percussive beat to which they dance: they move in a circle, rocking and swaying, hems sweeping through the sand.  
  
They honor you, Stephen.  
  
You rise from the dirt. For all your nakedness, you feel no shame.  
  
The figures procure mirrors from their cloaks and spin them, reflecting the firelight in fantastic glitters as they move. You rub your charcoal fingers together and bless the ritual procession with magic--a spectacular show of your power—with the flick of a wrist. The arroyo glows even brighter with bursts of thermal light and you feel yourself sinking into the reverie, submitting to the ecstasy washing through your brain.  
  
And then one of them slaps you with a slab of raw meat.  
  
You think it’s beef.  


 

☆

  
  
**Sᴄᴇɴᴇ : **Atop a sandstone ridge, out in the desert at night. The sky is unblemished by clouds and stars twinkle like pixels on a black computer screen. You are standing on the edge of the ridge, completely absorbed by the celestial fabric above, having lost touch with the infertile environment around yourself almost completely. Your eyes strain to penetrate the marvelous veil, to no avail, and you are left with the humbling feeling of immense smallness: a speck in the eye of the universe.  
  
Then a great, black planet of awesome size, lit by no sun, appears. It swallows up the entire sky, blotting out even the stars on the far horizons. You can see great swathes of thick, black trees, and deep, turbulent oceans in it. You can smell the scent of pine needles and sea salt. It's close. So close, that if you reached out, you might just touch it.  
  
You reach.  
  
The planet pulls away.  
  
You watch as it rolls back from you, churning its murky, icy waters and whipping its mighty sentinels with hurried wind. It retreats, as if offended, and shrinks back into the fabric, revealing the stars it blocked out. Desperate, you jump and grasp, but in vain. It disappears, fading into the black, and you're left on that sandstone ridge, peering into the sky, just as you were before.  
  
You feel an abysmal emptiness inside. You do not even possess the faculties to weep. You are too gone from yourself.


End file.
